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Feb 2017 · 185
Working Through Me.
lloyd britton Feb 2017
There are no images to which to view,
Except those that are in the mind,
My clothes are plain they do not matter,
No jewellery decorates my fingers nor face,
And although my hair is dyed I await the time,
When I shall chop it off and start again,
Being someone who loves the soul.
Feb 2017 · 374
Quaquaversal Confusions
lloyd britton Feb 2017
Quaquaversal confusions setting,
Pondering completion and regretting,
Mistakes and deep hard decisions,
Lines against flesh bleeding excisions.
Putting the past within the past,
And not looking back, making happiness last,
Lasting emotion and renew a sense of meaning,
Learning devotion, wanting the strength from my leaning,
Leaning on God as inspiration,
Paying my penance as co-operation.
Still uncertainty lingers around,
But unrelenting hope is what I have found.
lloyd britton Feb 2017
Had t5here been a bet5t5er greet5ing,
Dist5ance t5ravelled bet5t5er seat5ing
T5rain t5raverse on lines t5hat5 cut5,
Cut5t5ing t5hrough t5he land const5ruct5.
A measure of a cert5ain t5y6pe.
A measure of a purple st5ripe.
Baggy6 t5[-shirt5 loosened t5ie t5at5t5y6 t5orn.
Drag a comb t5hrough t5hat5 hair,
Dist5ant5 vacant5 wishingly6 purposeful st5are.
Say6 no t5o t5hat5 correct5 my6self.
Place t5hat5 cheap cologne on t5he shelf.

Once t5here was a t5all high hill,
T5hat5 once t5he knight5s carouse t5heir fill.
Will climb t5hat5 hill and climbing higher.
Like t5o t5he st5eeple of t5he church t5he spire.
Point5ed on high t5o a st5ar t5hat5 shine.
And shed It5’s light5 on t5he aspect5 of t5hine.
T%o t5umble down once climbed t5o t5he t5op,
And once t5he falling fell t5hen st5op.

Cont5inue deeper, cont5inue t5o smart5,
And deeply6 seat5ed creat5ed dist5ance depart5
And place t5he horse before t5he cart5,
T5hen know t5he meaning of word in art5.

T5he meadows light5 fills on t5he glade
And t5ravel ablout5 t5he dancing shade,
And as t5hese t5wo places glean,
T5here will be more and more t5o be seen.

T5hrough gradient5s of a penumbra,
And wit5h a cert5ain t5icking number,
When t5hings in shadow cower
And t5hings in light5 begin t5o flower
T5hen smiles on faces, dance and graces
Of t5his and t5hat5 and quicker popper flat5.
Chug chug chug of engine st5eam,
T5he rain of t5hese t5hings are bet5t5er off
T%han a conduct5or wit5h a splut5t5ery6 cough.
t5his is writ5t5en wit5h a broken key6board t5o add t5o t5he visual aspect5 of t5he poem.
Nov 2015 · 322
Identity of Art
lloyd britton Nov 2015
The sparkling resplendence of tarnished rumination, the thoughts of her cutting like blades bloodied and boiling with ether,
Like glittering gallows where we hang up the trills of lost trauma, banging on gongs and on pots and on pans, crashing through the headspace with decadent and sumptuous thrilling complication,
His hands a scribbling scribe that wallows and wails in the pale of the night, while following the foe of non-sleep fain all fright and find the delight,
His description and usage remaining elusive of how lovely her feature, how delicate her sentience a well-crafted creature, his prose turned to poem and poem to epic and epic to clinging epiphytes of language, not lulling and forever becoming more than that which he saw there upon the gravel and crunching sounding floor,
For the floor of his mind is like trudging over hot coals allowing the pain of the flame to devour the pain of not knowing what comes next, trying for timeless metaphors that appear naked and **** without garment or raiment and such is the payment of prose,
Quivering quills of peacocks long forgot now scrawled on the parchment, the ink of jet black is spilt and flows over the page and lost all the words like the shore on the sand erasing returning the gift of creation back to its rightful owner,
Now pondering the omen and hating himself for his tragic mistake his story lost forever for he will never remake or rebuild that amazing love letter, whipped to the gutter,
Before his tongue stutter his chest starts to flutter, now pick up that instrument of poetry and grow without wilting and disseminate what you create,
For to get so far and fail and try again then you are an artist, rewriting what was heard, even though it is blurred with the fading memory, and that is the identity of art.
Sep 2015 · 375
Incomprehensible Murmur.
lloyd britton Sep 2015
Incomprehensible murmur,
With the paragraph of rhythm,
This is spoken with precision,
This is tokens of decision.

Clearer comes the thinking,
All this clarity is linking,
In the choice that’s somewhat pivotal,
We are heading to the principle.

The principle is singular,
The third eye slowly opens,
Causing massive bursts of intuition,
Slowly, deeply comes fruition.

Dissolving all digression,
Of the subject which is changing,
Of the ego growing weaker,
And the capturing of spirit.

Nonsensical arrangements,
And the quality of concepts,
As they spring forth from the chasms,
And the truth is born from spasms.

Decoration of the poems,
That are bounding in the ether,
Revelation of the notions,
Now disguise them as prediction.

Listen to this, listen to this,
Ask this question, ask this question,
What picturesque is slowly shaping,
With the inhale exhalation?

Here is the gift of presentation,
Of allegorical equation,
It is fabled, it is legend,
It is myth in mead fermented.

In a drunken state of passion,
Drunk on prolix word-elixir,
Here we are now, here we are now,
In this fine-tuned endless moment.

Now keeping with this concept,
Shall we look a little deeper?
Looking at the present moment,
Philosophical emotion.

With everything in motion,
It’s a constant transformation,
Now here’s the complication,
When everything’s vibration.

The solid dense hard matter,
Is creating an illusion,
Make your mind like flowing water,
And you’ll see pass the confusion.

I feel it in my chest now,
And I feel it in my heart,
Pure as light this information,
Coming from all creation.

Now if this seems a little muddled,
And the data’s far from clear,
I have just one suggestion,
Which is halt your calculations.

Let us take the scenic route now,
It takes a little longer,
Due to dancing in the stanzas,
More suggestive, less corrupted.

It is less about the concept,
And more about feeling,
Like a lost one timid grieving,
And the purposeful believing.

I hope you get my meaning,
And the meaning full of lessons,
If you’re looking with your logic,
They will all remain elusive.
lloyd britton Jun 2015
Here is the object, the object of my heart,
With a description, let us start,
A subtle depiction, let the vague depart.
Travelling through my mind I am a seer.
I’m in love with an idea,
This idea is an untouchable spectre,
And with my intuitive detector,
I detect its origin, it’s in my soul,
But now with the desire coming in,
Coming in in bounds and flicks and one mighty roll,
I remember what the silence stole,
The silence of this concept,
And I reflect, on the reason why no answer is coming,
I must stave off this crumbling,
Crumbling of my heart, must keep it beating and drumming.
Oh why is it so unforthcoming?
Because I can’t imagine the words of another,
It would only be another word from my mind.
And I find, and I discover,
This idea is love with intricacy,
Such a delectable delicacy.
I feel it in its immediacy,
Concretely. But initially, lacking intimacy.
Where do I turn to find such a thing?
A connection beyond the cogitations,
With passionate love to bring,
A reflection of my desideration’s.
Consecrations of the heartbeats,
Longing is strong and hope never retreats.
You can do no wrong with love in your being,
That is what the world needs
For us to sow seeds,
But that’s not what I’m seeing,
I gander but do not witness,
The sprouts of love and peace,
Let’s plant them in the stillness,
And feel the release,
The seed that will grow,
Soon they will show,
And grow in emotive ways,
It never decays,
Come on now let’s increase,
All of our compassion and empathy,
We are not each other enemy.
A sudden caprice,
I feel it now and it is correct,
It’s helping me to connect.
And we need that so much more than you think,
For when we’re all gone and others remain,
The world will drink,
Our blood and our sweat and our pain.
It’s time to regain,
Our courage, let us stand tall,
And let forgiveness enthrall.
Apr 2015 · 590
Spiritual Premises
lloyd britton Apr 2015
One. The highest truth is determined through a combination of logical and intuitive scrutiny.
Two. The highest beauty is the discernment of the truth and its relationship with falsity.    
Three. The highest love is felt with an inexorable beauty and is the path to liberty.
Four. The highest liberty is gained through utilising the truth for the benefit of all and is sustained through peace.
Five. The highest peace is achieved through application of liberty and wisdom.
Six. The highest wisdom is a process of deliberating future actions based on principles.
Seven. The highest principle is respect.
Eight. The highest respect is achievement of altruism.
Nine. The highest altruism is the acceptance of the knowledge of the unity of all things.
Ten. The highest unity is the unfolding eternity within everything.
lloyd britton Apr 2015
I struggle to remain indefatigable,
I ravage my mind my for hours on end,
My yearning is insatiable,
Flexuous with the concepts to send.
Laboriously sewn, tentatively spoken,
Nonchalantly cast off devastation because it’s broken.

I will never seek acceptance again,
Emancipated from the shackles of denial,
As long as I live I will regain,
And refrain from a judgemental trial.
Perspicaciously drawn, ultimately deduced,
To the gallows with all of my sins, tightly noosed.

They want blood and pain and agony,
All of which I have to give,
I’d rather than expressions of tragedy,
Show what it means to live.
And ponder the spiritual diadems,
Glistening, repetitive, fractals and gems.

My supplications ever so earnest,
Are outweighed by my insubordination.
It’s myself, my own intentions I must harness,
And live beyond my failings and degradation.
Ecstasy is my fruitful, forgiving friend,
Fear my enemy, unrelenting to the end.

Erumpent rampant vociferation,
Endeavouring to end all thoughts iniquitous,
And reclaim my rumination,
Dare I say nefarious?
Well if it is so, than I shall make it not be,
For I have lost all and now I must live for me.
Apr 2015 · 497
My Trail
lloyd britton Apr 2015
The themes and figurines,
Of poetry and of art,
Play upon the dreams,
And by candle light depart,
Initiating hanging strings,
That leave traces in the dark,
Alleviating callous memes,
It’s meaningless completely stark.
The toys and trinket of the epoch,
Now rusted and despair,
Give way to the migrating flock,
With brutal traps that tightly ensnare.
The baubles and the jewellery,
Decorating trees and trunks,
Falderal expressions that pointlessly debunks.
For there’s ecstasy in the lunacy,
That haphazardly dips and dunks.
A trifle merely gesture,
As words become the furniture.
The fragrance in its potency,
More potent than the last,
Has lost some of it majesty,
When spending time thinking of the past.
The abstract and surreal,
Will open up the doors,
And what was once concealed,
Now delicately implores.
So there it is, driving matters forth,
And from and too,
The compass points to north,
But which direction does one go,
When imaginings move and grow?
Apr 2015 · 921
Love and Wisdom
lloyd britton Apr 2015
Love is gorgeous and wisdom sublime,
When they walk hand in hand there is no time,
For it stops, or so it seemed,
And when they kiss we are redeemed.

Love says “don’t hold back, give all you've got.”
Wisdom responds “remember what was once forgot.”
Love laughs she doesn't care about such things,
Wisdom smiles knowing what their pairing brings.

For when he’s absent love get hurt,
And when she’s away wisdom is cruel,
But in coming together they reassert,
The truth, and are no one’s fool.
Apr 2015 · 453
lloyd britton Apr 2015
From the fertile womb of aeons gone by,
The untold truths hidden in time,
Crash down plummeting from the sky,
In ceaseless interpretive mime.

From the gateways of karma,
And the echelons of rebirth,
Reveals the cognitive dharma,
In merriment and mirth.

The fabled dragons of puce,
Ignites the torches and reveals the path,
Undulating footsteps with music to ******,
Treading carelessly as we laugh.

All through life’s journey so blissful,
Learn to use language to your advantage,
Allow lies to be under your dismissal,
And we’ll get by, we’ll manage.
Apr 2015 · 399
Which Star?
lloyd britton Apr 2015
Through an assemblage of oak and spruce,
Through my intuition I have come to deduce,
That all is not correct in my environment,
And as I emerge, I voice my sentiment.

“I have appeared in a place so strange,”
Casting my eye upon it, watching it rearrange.
“Be this dream or fantasy?”
Defining my purpose should be key.

“We are inspired,
And so we create,
Our minds are wired,
A perfect state.”

But who are these others of that I speak?
I sense that I’m not alone,
And with a prickle and a tweak,
My mind is suddenly blown.

I’m in a forest I’ve heard about only in myth and tale,
Across the ground scurry pheasant and quail.
I was on a journey through outer space,
When we arrived at this great place.

I have entered in to a dimension parallel,
It is a likeness of my old world but bizarre,
I look up to the sky and cannot tell,
Which is my original home, which star?

If any?
Oh how many?
Apr 2015 · 297
The Moment
lloyd britton Apr 2015
Transformation of the fragility and ephemeral nature of today,
The crucial nature of the mind, oh how we are led astray.
Delving into our memories to find answers therein,
As we ponder the processes of thought we begin,
Begin to nourish the transience of the moment,
And meditate on the achievements of atonement.
Feb 2015 · 1.1k
The Oracle
lloyd britton Feb 2015
She wanders tranquil as the seas,
Floating on the nimble breeze.
She engulfs her spirit through a field,
Majestically she begins to yield.
She does not stop for man or beast,
And oxygen is her only feast.

She steps upon the sky upward soar,
With effervescent motion in her core.
Dragged from heaven she has sent,
Her love to all, whom would repent.
Roses in her raiment, delightful kiss,
Buoyant floral scatter into bliss.

Auric skin shining gallantly,
Spumescent emotions and comedy.
And with higher heated elevation,  
Climbing ethereal, supernal creation.
Mellifluous yet sepulchral tones,
Emanating from her deep bones.

Radiating miasmal decadence,
Anfractuous motions, candent opulence.
A vision to be seen by only the wisest men,
Her beauty reveals geometric truths and then,
Devours the evil in the souls hidden place,
By the light of love and truth all is grace.

To look upon the oracle in all her glory,
And glimpse her mind that holds your story.
She has the power to reveal our destinies,
All knowledge flow towards her with gentle ease.
I cannot turn away or break her gaze,
I’m lost within her eyes, a mighty maze.

She then speaks to me a message of distress,
Her colossal voice reverberating with finesse.
“You will not fall in love ever,
For you have chosen fear,
When death dances, ceasing never,
The bell comes and combs through here.”

Then I to her, speak my reply politely,
So as to not offend or seem unsightly.
“I do not fear death or his eye,
Nor my shackles wound round my feet,
There is no torture that can make me comply,
Not even Him on his high seat.”

And her to me, her face a placid consideration,
Unperturbed by my defiant complication.
“You ****** fool of a man,
How foolish can one be?
Stumbling in the dark without a plan,
Without foresight or a way to see.”

We could’ve ended there our interaction,
But up I pipe, avoiding distraction.
“And what advice would you bestow,
To help me through my trauma and help me grow?”
Feeling consternation in my quarrel,
And seeing in her eyes something more than moral.

She’s speaking louder, speaking clear,
As she swoops swiftly down gliding near,
“You know in your heart what needs to be done,
But always remember the game, which you haven’t won.
Never lose your creativity,
It is the gateway to serenity.”
lloyd britton Feb 2015
What trust is ****** upon us when bearers tell no lies?
When untold secrets are revealed in the visage of our eyes.
In silence be that perfect well rounded quietude,
Still unbroken yet answer stir through our attitude.
Tell of tales of stolen unforgiving looks,
Advice like this not found within your books.
Feb 2015 · 429
Floating Bee
lloyd britton Feb 2015
I’m now staring at the mirrored pages,
Ambient the music that plays onwards,
And I haven’t felt this way in ages,
Taste so sweet, the taste carries me forwards.
And deeper into the sublime I go,
Delving through the waves, to a sunken ship,
Seeking, searching what I already know,
Scavenging from the precipices lip.
All it shall take is for you to show me,
Which way to look, and to listen closer,
To the sound of the growing, floating bee,
A hundred things to be seen within her.
Bask in the knowledge that seeps from her skin,
She tells the tales that come from within.
Feb 2015 · 662
Mulberry Lane
lloyd britton Feb 2015
Mulberry lane was well lit in the dark,
I want to walk on, I want to travel,
So I wander a fair bit to the park,
So that I can let my thoughts unravel.
And in the dead of night, my thoughts did come,
Eager for the beat of my thoughts, here in,
In the form of a tune that I can hum,
And play upon my face a ghastly grin.
The sound in my head shall never be born,
So why do I wander in the dark night?
Suppose it stops me from being forlorn,
Also the darkness restricts my eyesight.
So I can hear music that keeps me sane,
It’s all in my head, on Mulberry lane.
Feb 2015 · 330
So I Don't Weep
lloyd britton Feb 2015
There is a poem living in my head,
Anfractuous and organic its movements,
Oscillating free on the tongue when said,
Trickling viscosity, then it cements.
I reach out and pluck plumes from the unknown,
Devouring the delectable verse,
Mutter, murmur, and release a new moan,
The silence that follows is my old curse.
I seek out concepts to take me forward,
Like the idea of life after death,
How such things play on the mind, as they should,
Taking in a deep and meaningful breath.
Now lay next to me and fall fast asleep,
And dream sweet dreams all night, so I don’t weep.
Feb 2015 · 503
Playful Muses
lloyd britton Feb 2015
If lines be given by playful muses,
And not from my own poetic labours,
Leaving trails in my mind that bemuses,
Following the flow of fortunes neighbours.
Then you’ll be waiting a long time for this,
A very long time, for they trek slowly,
But when they hit the target, they don’t miss,
And reveal those patterns that are holy.
However it shall come on flying wings,
Eventually I shall have what’s mine,
And I will bring to you, all that it brings,
Speaking the beauteous art that is fine.
Perfection found on the imperfect breeze,
And then seize the opportunity, seize.
Feb 2015 · 901
Replenish the Soul
lloyd britton Feb 2015
Replenish the soul in limpid waters,
Shinning radiant from the deep abyss.
Surrounded by nymphs, Zeus’s fine daughters,
A feeling of love, a feeling of bliss.
Supple bodies splash about in the pool,
Limbs elongated, the mind sedated,
Bathing in the shimmering waters cool.
Twang of heart strings, completely elated.
Drenched in the sunshine, drenched in the moonlight.
Playfully frolicking throughout all time.
And drinking down the nectar of delight,
Sampling the citrus fruits, lemon and lime.
The soul is satisfied, the soul is strong.
And justly endeavouring to belong.
Feb 2015 · 388
Principles of Respect
lloyd britton Feb 2015
I always come first,
Before any other thing.
I am the maxim of the soul.
Compassion is what I bring.
And I bring it well,
If I’m not misplaced.
And if I am, you are disgraced.
Feb 2015 · 931
Dance to Psytrance
lloyd britton Feb 2015
Clarity doesn’t always fit the rhyming scheme,
And reverence doesn’t always amount to lines like “I have a dream.”
But I find I like things to dance,
It enraptures me,
Especially to psytrance,
It sets me free.
Feb 2015 · 633
Silk Skin
lloyd britton Feb 2015
Silk skin, pale as the lotus petal,
Glistening with pearly sweet nectar,
Touch of molten metal.
Sensation collector.
Sensual running fingertips,
Over prickling hair.
Sweat, beads and drips.
Breathe in the amorous air.
Deep breath, heave and swoon.
Fresh, tastes like mint.
Exotic flowers bloom.
Caresses, sparks on the flint.
Feb 2015 · 518
Memories Glide
lloyd britton Feb 2015
Memories glide,
Murmuring through,
The effluent tide,
Of neural pathways that grew.
Synapses tingle,
Meticulously awaken,
When the eyes grows single,
The soul shaken.
And the eye sees light,
Gleaming out of the dark,
And as day come from night,
Hark the call hark.
Spinning in a vortex of vision,
Everything magnified and repeated,
Peering through the prism,
Holographic and completed.
Glimpse into the supernal landscape,
Gaze at the wonders of the universe,
Within yourself lie ecstasy escape,
Within flowering passion submerse.
Wanderer of the continuum,
Passed beatific boundaries elated,
Heart beats to the conundrum,
Collapsing back in to what is created.
Feb 2015 · 469
The Tree
lloyd britton Feb 2015
A surging, endless lamentation,
Of past mistakes created.
A shrill eternal ululation,
Never to be sedated.

Visions through a fish eyed lens,
Full of unwavering scope.
Kaleidoscopic patterns descends,
Organic structures full of hope.

As the patterns turn over and under,
Weaving themselves in delicate filigree.
Colour and shape blended asunder,
Emerges the silhouette of an ancient tree.

Bearing fruit that initiates elation,
And sweet nectar that electrifies.
Flowers bloom, ornate decoration,
A tribute to the ethereal beauty that it supplies.

Golden flavoured aromatic vapours rise,
Bioluminescence glowing grand.
Its purpose difficult to surmise,
Growing graciously tall it does stand.

Then violently the tree it does ******,
Itself from its essence.
Leaving us with ourselves to trust,
In our veracious nescience.

It’s branches and leaves now just a memory.
The after taste seems so bitter,
And with it leaving a given summary,
Of our concepts that dither and flitter.

A trembling realisation.
Show me your soul and I’ll show you mine.
Torrid and flustered anticipation,
As we gaze at one another our hearts align.

Hold onto that moment,
In its singularity benign.
Postponing atonement,
Clutching on to the supposed divine.

Pragmatic paradigm shift.
From the echelons of infinity.
Negativity gently drift,
As we accept our divinity.
lloyd britton Feb 2015
The awkward jutting out of spiny branches,
And a monotonous tone bellowing through the chasm,
The reverberation of sound an incomprehensible spasm,
And the shaking of rock with threats of avalanches.
Something’s happening in my mind’s eye.
Something weird, darksome and ambiguous.
As the shattered memory flew through us,
Ransacked the minds metaphors with a dusty cry.
Whale song and bird song mixing together.
Entwined like two lovers twanging in their movement.
A blast of brilliant light in the cave of thoughts, an improvement,
And singing in a strange tongue relishing forever.
The misshapen figure of my spirit guide,
Blurry in the distance and emerging from the light.
Images of my soul a riding black knight.
The two come together walking in stride.
Leading through corridors and passages bleak,
To a landscape thwarting the concepts placed within it.
And striding through its swerving scene ideas bound and tight knit.
And set fire to itself with plumes that reek.
Choose a word, I choose access,
Hear that word ring out growing in its beauty and elegance.
Then ****** violently from one place to another, the relevance?
Not understanding the situational nexus.
Feb 2015 · 327
Morality's Tale
lloyd britton Feb 2015
There once came a tale that didn’t want to be told.
It shuddered in the light of the voices decrepit and old,
That tried to conjure it at the peripheries of its boundaries.
But it fought back lingering in its formation in the foundries.  
It would not be cast so easily like metal,
It would not be set so willingly in stone,
It would float on the tip of the tongue a fragranced petal,
It would bounce on the edge of the mind an ineffable tone.
Never drifting too close to anyone’s ear,
It remained in the distance away from the sages and scribes,
Always aware of its greatest fear,
To be misinterpreted by the way a human describes.
For who in all of creation has the ability to tell a story such as this?
With all the glory and irreverence so subtly intertwined,
The colour so luminous, and texture beating with bliss,
With no earthly writer could this yarn be aligned.
The muses who birthed this defiant prose did weep,
When they saw their child miss its chance for eternity again and again,
They beseeched their progeny to take the leap,
But over and over it would say no and cause them such pain.
And in the absence of this story the world fell in disarray,
Chaos ran wild and fear grew rife,
Without the stories guidance, the part it was supposed to play,
Soon it came to the end of its life.
For the humans had lost their ability to imagine such a story,
And it was lost in obscurity, unconceived glory.
It was then it saw the errors of its foolish way,
It tried to enter their thoughts but could never stay.
It was now far too late,
It had created its fate.
And everything turned grim, in a darksome pit
When it realised no one would remember it.
And the moral of the story is this,
Take this token a gentle kiss.
Play your part and play it bold,
Let your story be one that’s told.
Feb 2015 · 706
Brandy Riddles
lloyd britton Feb 2015
Beat our brandy riddles,
Flake our sunshine wings,
Inject our floral laughter.
And for the most part take down all ever afters.
There was a gusty sight on the wind last night,
Dust spitting up across the firmament.
And the crack in the latch and the old thatched roof,
Blow about and rustle and clatter.
The canines cry with their shaggy coats wet,
As the moon begins to set in an ever after.
The widowed spider build a web spinning and spatter.
And with all the thing that I have seen,
With actions that were cruel and mean,
I reach for redemption.
Release from these crazy muses of mine.
Press your chest against mine,
So I can feel your heart beat, beating with our brandy riddles.
And clutch our hands together our palms in the middle.
Hold on, wait up, and stay up late with me,
Picking the scabs off our imaginary wings made of ultra violet light.
And watch the scabs turn to scars as our wings flake, what a sight!?
Delve deep into memories that make us smile.
Endless perfumed laughs,
Wrapped in scarfs,
As we cross from the wooden door to the field and run through the grass,
And what will we do for the time to pass?
Succumb to our glittering temptation,
Felt only once in a generation.
There is an awful blight on our strength and might,
Pouring dew on our wounds, self-inflicted.
And the blood it does seep,
With the scars to keep,
And troubled now addicted.
Keep going, keep moving.
It’s all in the grooving.
With the crack in the latch that batters the lock.
And the thatched roof all fallen asunder.
And the yelping of dogs sodden in the rain water.
Spinning a coffin for the flies caught now bitten and dead.
The spider has said all that is to be said.
Beat our brandy riddles,
Flake our sunshine wings,
Inject our floral laughter.
Feb 2015 · 318
The Space Between
lloyd britton Feb 2015
Come sit with me under a tree.
Would you ruminate on my pouring heart?
Come paint pictures with me under the canopy.
Would you find a place for love to start?

If I promise to learn from my mistakes,
Would you not judge me too harshly?
As I tell you my yarn by the glittering lakes,
And watch the rolling hills grow marshy.

Drink up with me as I spill all my sin,
And confide in you like I have no other.
I fear you would throw me away into the bin,
And will forget about me, loving another.
Feb 2015 · 508
Poets Creatively Conjuring
lloyd britton Feb 2015
What words to choose for a sudden inebriation?
A cacophony of lyrical opiates,
Amorous with the linguistic calculation,
Submerged in the mind, uttered copious.
Drunk on an emotion in the twilight,
Singing to all the crepuscular creatures,
Language lulling yet never refrains its delight,
Understood like words of the preachers.
That’s how but why?
Because beauty builds on aesthetics,
Through sounds spoken on high,
And rhyming reveal those familiar tricks.
By virtue of allurement construction,
At the hand of resonance raised,
And verse venture until destruction,
Into the silence which shall be praised.
If it is to be said then should it be plainly?
Then what of poets creatively conjuring?
I know why we offer words humanely,
Too create images that are conquering.
Feb 2015 · 442
Cascading Times
lloyd britton Feb 2015
Cascading times,
Caressing forever,  
A deluge of chimes,
Powerful endeavour.

Glitter gleaming bright,
Like little stars,
Pin ****** in the night,
Revealing mental scars.

Try to ask myself “is it honest?
Is it pleasure?”
Because that’s what I want as an artist.
To create something I’ll treasure.
Feb 2015 · 720
Hearing Music
lloyd britton Feb 2015
Hearing music,
And songs.
Centimetres cubic,
And prongs.

Feeling deep bass lines,
Drinking the blues,
Echoing shines
Eloquent muse.

Blabbering brooks,
And useless tongues,
Deceiving looks,
And exploding lungs.

Seeing colours saturated,
With patterns that prickle,
Sensing hues evaporated,
With a silly tickle.

— The End —